Sweet Nothing
by crystal-chan
Summary: He can't stand the contrast between the way Spain treats him in reality and the beautiful lie he lives in dreams.
1. Every Whisper, It's the Worst

This Chapter (and most of the fic) heavily inspired by Calvin Haris's Sweet Nothing, featuring Florence Welch.

Don't own don't sue, please review.

Cross posted at AO3

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><p>"Lovino," that voice, deep and warm as the sunlight itself drifted to him over the waves of his distraction. The searing press of skin on skin, hands at his shoulders, brushing his face, the small of his back. It was all so beautiful, too beautiful. He refused to fall for this same old ruse again—he must be dreaming. He kept his eyes shut tight, too sure of what he'd see and too afraid of his own wanting. "Lovino, <em>despierta mi corazón<em>," the voice persisted, his words threading through Lovino's very core, stirring the hurt he hid there. He didn't want to. He really didn't want to, but he couldn't help it. When had he ever been able to deny that man anything? He opened his eyes and was rendered breathless by what he saw.

"Can't wake up in a dream, idiot." He told the gorgeous phantasm before him, trying not to think too hard about the too-real feeling of that perfect body tangled up with his, the sight of tanned skin rising up from white sheets.

"No?" His tormentor laughed, and the sound was full of light. Antonio was there, just as he'd known he would be, far too close and tracing lazy designs over every bit of Lovino's skin he could reach. He trembled beneath the Spaniard's touch, terrified of the feelings it woke in him. "What _can_ you do then?" Antonio shifted as he spoke, pinning Lovino back against his pillows, pressing his muscled thigh between Lovino's legs and stealing the breath from his lungs. Lovino's traitorous hands reached out automatically to grasp at the firm flesh of broad shoulders.

"Not that," he protested weakly, even as his arms strained to pull Antonio closer. He didn't want this—knew all too well where this was going and where it would leave him, but he was too weak to his own desires to stop.

"Are you sure?" Antonio teased, the movement of his lips close enough to brush maddeningly against the junction of neck and shoulder. He planted a kiss against the pulse he found there, and Lovino shuddered. "Is it possible for me to convince you otherwise?" He punctuated every other word with a kiss, trailing them upwards until he could meet Lovino's lips.

More than anything else, it was that kiss that always hurt the most. It was the loveliest kind of torture—so wonderful and so sweet and so completely out of his reach in reality. Antonio's mouth slid so effortlessly and perfectly against his own, and Lovino could do nothing but bend beneath the weight of this emotion. It was too easy to imagine—too easy to pretend that Antonio might actually….

He broke the kiss and arched against the body above him in a vain attempt to escape, gasping as he only pressed himself further into Antonio's unyielding form.

"Lovi, _mi querido_." His lover in dreams smiled down at him, eyes alight with hopeless affection. He didn't know why his own mind sought to hurt him like this. Antonio never looked at him like that and meant it—never gave him anything more than empty smiles and platitudes. "Have I convinced you yet?" He wanted to say no, wanted to push the illusion away and ground himself in reality again, but the temptation was too strong. Antonio's chest felt so real beneath his trembling fingertips, the green of his eyes was so blindingly deep.

"M-maybe," he stuttered, playing along because he didn't know what else to do. He wanted to just wake up, and he dreaded it all the same. He wanted to take what fantasy offered, but whatever comfort this dream could give him would only hurt all the worse in the end for its unattainable beauty.

"Only maybe? Well, perhaps I should try again?" Antonio jested, sliding down to trail more hot, open-mouthed kisses across Lovino's chest, chipping away at whatever sense of resolve or pride he had left. Every kiss was as careful and deliberate as the last, each one a tiny declaration of emotion that wracked him with sweet ache. It was all Lovino could do to hold still, too afraid of shattering the illusion to move. "Lovino," the Spaniard drawled, letting his hands wander further below the sheets, teasing with fingertips at the space blow his navel, at the tops of his thighs until he thought he must be going mad. Antonio slid further still, killing Lovino with anticipation as he lavished attention on the fluttering muscles of his stomach, on the dip of his hip bones, on the seam of his legs but never the place he really wanted. He squirmed involuntarily, unsettled by how easy it was to lose himself to this. "Lovi, what about now?" The bastard whispered against the skin of his inner thigh, his breath puffing tantalizingly against Lovino's erection.

He couldn't help himself. He was powerless to his own fantasy,

"Yes," he called helplessly, and nearly died as that beautiful mouth took him in. He fisted his hands in the pillow next to his head, daring to look down at the image his twisted mind had decided to conjure in sleep. Antonio was lathing and sucking at him, his head bobbing obscenely, one hand wrapped around the base and the other pressed firmly against his shaking hip. Lovino felt as if he might burn into nothing under the heat of Antonio's passion. He bucked into it, felt all the more turned on when Antonio's strength held him firmly down. That mouth worked just _so_, just right to make him nearly loose his mind and forget himself in the pleasure of it.

It was Antonio's gaze that kept him from spiraling entirely into mindlessness. Those Emerald orbs were open, watching him, marking his every sigh and pleasured motion, making sure this was good for him. Antonio looked at him as if he wanted nothing more than Lovino's satisfaction, Lovino's happiness. As if he really cared, truly and undyingly and he just couldn't—

The suction was too perfect and the timing of dreams hazy; it didn't take long for him to meet the rush of completion, screaming his loved one's name in that one, white instant. He felt tears at the corners of his eyes and knew they were not wholly from pleasure.

Callused fingers brushed gently against his lashes, wiping the liquid away. He came back down to earth and found Antonio hovering over him again, his careful, too tender gaze too close to avoid. Lovino's heart contracted painfully at the look, his words trapped in his throat.

"_Te quiero, mi amor_," Antonio murmured, so sincerely, so earnestly, and he….

It couldn't happen. It would never happen and he couldn't fool himself any longer. The dream shattered and Lovino with it.


	2. Your Love is Lost on Me

The first two chapters are a little short, so I've posted them both at once. yaaaay.

This chapter heavily inspired by Milo Greene's "What's the Matter"

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><p>"Good morning, Romano!" Feliciano practically shouted at him as he dragged himself into the kitchen. He spared his brother an odd glance and traipsed straight for the liquor cabinet, intent on pouring himself a glass of whatever he could find.<p>

"Weren't you supposed to be at the potato bastard's place?" He grouched, scanning their alcohol supply with disdain before settling on the Disaronno. They were running disgustingly low on his favorites. Only to be expected. He supposed. He'd been having a lot of dreams, lately.

"Um, well I was, but then I… _fratello_ isn't it a little early for that?" Feliciano motioned to the bottle he was currently trying to open. Lovino glared in response. He forced the damn lid off and then scanned the counter for a glass. Finding none readily handy he just took a swig straight from the bottle, much to Feliciano's horror. He sputtered around the taste, wishing he'd gone in search of a good wine instead. Amaretto was more Feliciano's thing. "Roma, are you—are you okay?"

"Perfect," He grouched, forcing down another mouthful of liquor. "I am totally perfect." He slammed the bottle down on the counter and glowered at it as if it had betrayed him, waiting for it to just kick in and take his thoughts away already. He wanted to go back to sleep and think of nothing. He downed a third shot, just for good measure and was contemplating a fourth when Feliciano tore the thing from his grip.

"What are you doing?" the younger Italian asked with wide eyes, hiding the bottle behind his back as if he would protect it from Lovino.

"Drinking, obviously," he remarked dryly, holding his hand out for the amaretto. When Feliciano made no move to return it, he rolled his eyes and turned back to the cabinet to find something else.

"No. No, this is not okay." Feliciano blocked him bodily, standing in front of him with wide eyes. He slipped the bottle of Disaronno onto the counter behind him, left it balanced balefully close to the edge. "We've got a meeting today, remember? That's why I came home—World meeting in Rome, right?" Lovino stared blankly at his brother, thinking it over muzzily for just one moment. He had forgotten, but it didn't matter. That kind of thing didn't really concern him any longer, did it? He pushed Feli out of the way, and grabbed the Amaretto once more, turning to take it back to his room. He was fucking _tired_. "Romano!" Feliciano demanded, voice thick with worry and annoyance.

"I'm going back to sleep," he tossed behind himself, marching determinately back to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

"But we've got to leave for the meeting in—"

"No," he interrupted, pausing in the kitchen doorway. "Maybe you've got to go, but it's got nothing to do with me. _You're_ the real Italy. No one fucking cares whether I'm there or not." He hurt himself with his own prognosis, inoculated himself to the pain that way. If he injured himself first, no one else could. It was the best defense he had.

Feli didn't seem to know what to say to that. Maybe it was too true. Lovino hugged the bottle to his chest, gritted his teeth, and forced the bitterness back under control. Grip white-knuckled against the glass, he steeled himself and kept moving. He was half-way down the hall by the time Feliciano gathered himself enough to move.

"Wait!" the dork called, pounding clumsily after him. "Wait, that's not true! Roma, why would you even say something like that?!"

"Feliciano, which one of us does the boss usually call?" He asked, not sure why he was entertaining his brother now He didn't owe Feli any explanations. He knew the truth well enough. Wasn't that enough? He should just get to his damn room and lock the door.

"Well, me, but—"

"And which one of us gets a cold if there's a recession?"

"I guess, I do, but Roma—"

"And who actually gets called _Italia_ by the other nations?" The swooping designs in raised glass dug painfully into his clenching hands. He had to force his grip to ease, distantly worried about shattering the damn thing. That'd be just the sort of thing he'd do, wouldn't it? He'd always good at breaking expensive, delicate things.

"Me, but that's not the point!" Feliciano shouted, flustered. "Maybe that stuff is true, but that doesn't mean you're not equally important!" Lovino scoffed, turning his back on his brother to continue his trek. The door was within reach. He just needed to cross the threshold and turn the lock. He could sleep this day off and forget he'd ever had a stupid nightmare like that… "Romano!" Feliciano's grip on his shoulder stopped him in place, thin fingers pressing desperately into his collarbone.

"What," he growled, his voice dripping poison.

"I'd notice, that you weren't there." Feli offered, his voice wavering. Lovino sighed disparagingly

"Thank you, but I think you see me enough times the rest of the year that one meeting won't kill you. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"And what about Spain? I think he'd miss you too!" Feli tried insistently. Lovino went stiff beneath his hand, his heart aching at the sound of that fool's name. He raised one palm to rub at his mouth, trying to wipe away the echo of a perfect, impossible kiss.

"As long as you're there," he mumbled distractedly, "I don't think he'd even know the difference." Brooking no further protest, he shook off Feliciano's grip, stepped into his own room and slammed the door shut. Feli's continued whining was easy enough to ignore. He could barely hear his brother's protests over the sound of the lock sliding into place. He made it a few steps further into the room before he dropped carelessly to the floor, leaning in an uncomfortable half-sitting position against the frame of his bed with the amaretto clutched and dangling between his knees. He pulled another shot from it, held it to his chest. "_Idiota,_" he condemned himself venomously, curled around his aching heart and grieving for a relationship that could never come to be.

He prayed the liquor would kick in soon.


	3. I know I'm A Mess

Whoa guys, the fic's doing that thing where it decides to be longer than it's supposed to...

Hope ya'll like.

WARNING: There's some heavy stuff in this chapter, so if you've got any triggers, you may want to be careful. Suicidal thoughts, near drowning, and some fairly intense self hate all make an appearance.

The song that helped write this chapter is:  
>Paper Bag, by Fiona Apple<p>

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><p>In hindsight, Lovino probably should have realized drinking might be a bad idea. But then, he'd never exactly been the wisest, had he? He had hoped for a quick descent into dreamless unconsciousness. What he got instead was a flood of drunken emotionalism.<p>

He'd lain dizzy on the floor for as long as he could stand after polishing off the last of the amaretto. He'd made an honest attempt to pass out, at least until he heard the front door swing shut. So Feli had left for his meeting then. Good. Let them have the _real_ Italy today. What did they need with a fake like him anyway?

Frustrated, mind churning, he'd tried to move on to something else. If sleep wouldn't come, he'd do something equally mindless. Maybe read or clean or who knew what. Just_ something_ to keep the ache at bay. But the words of any page were lost on him, dancing across his sight as they were. Television seemed like a good idea too, until the lights of the screen made his eyes too sore to look. He'd given tidying up a solid attempt, but somewhere down the line he'd found himself lying face first on the floor with the broom handle slamming into the back of his head, and that was around the time he decided he seriously needed another drink.

There was something between that point and here, he knew, but he couldn't remember what it was. He did know what _here_ was, though, and that was a bath drawn slightly too-hot, his aching head little more than a distant thought. Somewhere amidst his cleaning spree, he'd found a good bottle of wine he hadn't known he'd owned. It was old, unlabeled, probably from Andalucía. Too sweet, enough to make him feel slightly ill. Feli would have liked it.

"He doesn't know what kind of party he's missing," He slurred sarcastically to himself, leaning heavily against the edge of the tub, drinking his wine straight from the bottle. It likely wasn't smart to drink in the bath when he'd already had a few too many sips of harder liquor, but it wasn't like it could kill him. That British bastard would be dead ten times over if nations could really be affected by alcohol poisoning.

"To being fucking drunk," he raised the bottle as if to make a toast, clanked it against the bath faucet, and downed the last of the bottle. It wasn't the kind of wine one was supposed to drink all at once. It was aged and carefully balanced with all the right notes—made him think of warm summer nights in days gone by. It was absolutely awful and he would drink it how he pleased. He drained it to the last, and let the glass slip carelessly from his fingers. It tumbled down with a splash and stayed floating just above his thighs, the light traveling through it casting emerald hues over his skin. Lovino closed his eyes to avoid the sight. It was too pretty, too green. He didn't feel like looking at pretty things right now. He wanted twisted, ugly messes—as terrible as he felt.

"To being fucking terrible," he announced in a softer voice, reaching out with one unsteady hand to hold the bottle down until it was filled with water and would no longer float. This congress did not care to suffer beautiful things. The glass was too goddamn green and the wine was too fucking nostalgic, and everything always came back to fucking _Spagna_ in the end for him, didn't it.

_Fuck you, Antonio_, he thought, but couldn't say.

The glass stayed well below the surface, tapping his thigh each time he shifted and disturbed the water. He watched it, displeased with its continued existence. Even submerged it was still the same damn green, the darker shade of _his_ eyes before a storm.

Frustrated, Lovino slung an arm across his face, splashing himself and half the bathroom floor in the process. Whatever. He didn't care. He was quite done with caring. Making messes was at least one thing he knew he could do better than almost anyone else. Best to put his talents to use, right?

_Ugh, shut the fuck up. You are an over-dramatic dumbass feeling sorry for yourself, drunk in the bath before noon on a workday. It's no wonder he doesn't look twice at you._ He hissed as his inner thoughts began anew, curling into himself. He wasn't in the best position for it; the edge of the tub dug uncomfortably into his armpit, but he was drunk enough not to care. _No one that perfect is ever going to love—_

Too much. Far too much thinking. Maybe if he drank another bottle he'd lose the voice of reason again. He tried to leap to his feet, hurrying, as if he could escape his own mind. Unfortunately, the combination of overheated water, alcohol, and his minor head injury from the cleaning incident were more than enough to send his vision swimming. Stumbling was inevitable. He felt himself fall as if in slow motion. First one foot slid out from beneath him, then the other. Lovino flailed madly for purchase, but stepped on the very same bottle he'd maliciously dunked earlier. He fell gracelessly, cracking his skull against the bath wall on the way down and drenching the floor with a wave of hot water.

However much he spilled, it didn't spare him from slipping beneath the surface. The water level stayed just deep enough to cover his nose and mouth. Stunned, head and back smarting, he let it. The water sloshed around him, settling slowly. Lovino lay still, content to feel the sensation of the moving liquid against his skin. He watched the way the light shone through the water's surface and wondered why the universe seemed intent on reminding him what a _fucking mess_ he really was.

It didn't take long for his chest to begin constricting uncomfortably, body trembling with short, abortive attempts at drawing breath. He scarcely noticed. Moving his limbs felt like trying to move a mountain. Besides, everything looked more beautiful this way, glimmering and hazy. Wouldn't it be better to stay like this? Thoughtless, imagining maybe he was warm and safe and back a few hundred years in time…

As darkness crept into his vision, he began to realize that no one was coming to save him. It was a vain hope he hadn't even realized he'd borne, but its breaking was enough to wake him to the truth. If he didn't save himself, this would be the end. No more of anything—no more terrible decisions to make. No more longing, no more hurt. Maybe… maybe he wouldn't mind an end to all of that.

He might have let himself go then. His consciousness was slipping, lungs tearing for air, water rushing into nose and mouth and _burning_ its way down, but he might have let it go. But through the haze of self-pity, he realized that if he didn't get his own ass up, Feli would be the one to find him. The idiot would do just fine without him but… could he really leave it like _this? _It might kill Feli to see him this pathetic. And for that matter, what the _hell_? He was going to die half on accident in his own fucking bathwater. What a joke.

With the last of his strength, Lovino forced himself up. He pushed with his legs against the far wall and slid himself to a sitting position, gasping the moment he felt air on his face. For a moment, he thought he might be too late anyway. He was coughing and gagging in turns, struggling so hard for air that he couldn't breathe. Eventually, bit by bit, he vomited enough water for the oxygen to start pumping through his veins again. Lovino let his head loll against the side of the tub, the adrenaline that had supported him swiftly fading. He felt weak and unhinged, alone with nothing but his alcohol-poisoned blood and a hurt that seemed to thread his whole being.

_What a fucking joke,_ he thought to himself, still too breathless to say the words aloud. With far too much effort, he flailed a boneless arm toward the drain, and pulled the stopper. Somehow the ugly sound of all that water slipping away seemed a fitting anthem. It was the lullaby that finally accompanied him to unconsciousness.


	4. What a State I'm In

Welp, friendos, we've officially reached chapter 4, which I had originally thought would be the last. As usual, the characters seem to have hijacked my plot.

I've noticed these things seem to be growing in length as I go... oh well.

Comments are appreciated, even if it's just something like "dude this sucks, go home"

had trouble deciding which song to put with this chapter, but I think I settled on:  
>Warning Sign by Coldplay<br>(somehow this song inspires a lot for me)

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><p>"Lovino?" that damnable, perfect voice reached him somewhere within the realm of dreams. He could have cried at the sound. Not again, please. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep forever, without the constant reminders showcasing his greatest desires. Could the dreams just fuck off today?<p>

Apparently not. There were warm fingers threaded insistent through his hair, gently stroking. He felt too aware of their owner to be comforted by the touch, tracing sparks across his skin. He hadn't forgotten how much that gentleness could _hurt_.

"Lovi, _please_ wake up. ¿_Por qué no te despiertes, mi corazón_?" That voice was as insistent and beautiful as always, threading through his whole being, jarring his very center. And yet, there was something… not quite right this time. "Lovino, _cariño, despiértate por favor__._" There was no denying whose voice that was but… had it ever sounded so worried before?

Curious, he cracked open an eye, and immediately wished he hadn't. Light shone unforgiving from somewhere in the room, lancing through his skull and forcing him to remember exactly how it was he'd fallen asleep in the first place. His head throbbed, pain shooting down his neck and spine.

"Fucking _ow_," he cursed, the syllables unusually difficult to force out. His throat likely hadn't appreciated the abuse it had gone through retching all that water back up.

"Oh, thank God." …the voice was still there. Lovino did the mental equivalent of a double take. Yes, there was still a hand against his brow, though the fingers had stilled. Yes, he felt like someone had run him over with a truck, pulled into reverse and hit him again. These two things seemed incongruous. Weren't dreams famously painless?

Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe—it had to be something, right? There was no way he was actually _here_. He really didn't _want_ that person to be here. He'd die of embarrassment if that idiot saw him like this.

Painstakingly, he forced himself to turn toward the sound of a voice from dreams. He was more careful about the light as he eased one eyelid open until he could just barely squint.

"Hey," Sure enough, Antonio's dumb face was there to greet him. He felt his mouth go dry, heart skipping a beat. What—how—

"You—" he fumbled for the words to say. Nothing seemed appropriate. He felt utterly humiliated, face heating with shame. He remembered with a sharp clarity every bit of the drunken mess he'd made of the house, the way he must have looked once found. For Antonio to have seen that… Fuck, he couldn't do this. He was going crazy already, but this was going to break him. Was he supposed to laugh, or cry? He swallowed the shattered pieces of his pride and decided he'd find the answer later. "What are you doing here?" he asked, because he still didn't _understand_.

Antonio sighed, actually had the audacity to look relieved. His hand drew away from Lovino's brow, leaving him feeling unhinged and empty in its wake. He shook once, bit the inside of his cheek to keep from begging that touch to return. He didn't need it. He had no _right_ to need it.

"You know, I could ask you the same thing, Lovi." It wasn't fair, the way that idiot could do something as simple as say his name, and still make him feel this raw inside. But maybe it wasn't Antonio's fault. Maybe he just hadn't worked enough alcohol out of his system yet. Maybe he'd burned through too much.

"'s my house," he grumped, operating on automatic. He could snipe without thinking. He'd had to learn how, when Antonio could stop his thoughts with just a look like that. Lovino dared another glimpse at his visitor, noted the way he was sitting. He was settled at the edge of the bed with his knees folded, curled at the waist, leaning on one hand. His torso bridged Lovino's, face just close enough to make him nervous.

"It is that, but you had somewhere else to be today. Did you forget?"

"No," he bristled. When was Antonio going to stop treating him like a child? "I was tired. I went back to bed."

"Really?" the Spaniard just shot him a look of cool disbelief, single eyebrow arrogantly raised. Lovino heard the quiet clinking of glass and realized Antonio was tapping the empty Disaronno that had kicked off his binge. Odd, he didn't remember leaving it on the bed.

"I was trying to sleep," he maintained, and he supposed he honestly had been. "What do you know, it worked, until you came along." More bitterness than he'd intended seeped into the declaration. Antonio's grimace was more gratifying than it should have been.

"Is that how you normally sleep, these days?" He was trying to play along, his normally cheery voice hesitant, as if Lovi were an animal he was afraid of scaring off.

"Absolutely. That bath tub's comfortable like you wouldn't believe. The concussion's a big help too." He forced the sarcasm to mask his mortification. It was a trick he'd learned to master.

"Lovino—"

"You didn't answer my question, _Spagna_. Why aren't you at your precious meeting, if it's so damn important?"

"You weren't there," he admitted, candidly, without even a breath of pause. "I came to Rome mostly just to see you, you know. It didn't seem right for me to stay without you."

"O-oh," He tripped, a stumble in the dance. His heart fluttered. He didn't know what that _meant_. "But I thought… wasn't Feliciano there?" Antonio looked at him as if he'd just said something very strange.

"Sure, but you're who I wanted to see, _querido_."

It wasn't fair. Why was it Antonio could sit there and say these things like he meant them? Words a lover might mean, except he wasn't. Except he'd made it abundantly clear he didn't think of Lovino that way. He'd never mean it the way Lovi desperately wanted him to. He had to spend a moment viciously biting the inside of his cheek, eyes clenched shut, trying to force his rebellious heart freeze back over.

"Lovi? Are you okay?"

"_Fucking_ fantastic," he could actually feel Antonio's wince through the mattress. Oh, had the sarcasm been a little too strong on that one?

"Sorry, stupid question. I know your head's got to be hurting something awful. Just… Do you keep any kind of painkillers in the house?" Great. He had Antonio going in full caretaker mode.

"It's fine," he huffed.

"Are you sure? Because I can—"

"You want to help? Go grab a bottle of wine from the cellar. Pinot maybe. That'll either take care of the headache, or make it bad enough to knock me out. Win-win, right?" Antonio didn't answer right away. Lovino dared another glance at his expression and wished he hadn't. He was making an awful face, half caught between disappointment and worry.

"No," he answered after far too long, uncharacteristically quiet. "Not right. You've had enough. This isn't okay, Lovi." He couldn't explain the anger that surged within him like bile at the admonition.

"What right do _you_ have to—"

"I thought you were dead!" Antonio shouted, moving so that his free hand slammed into the pillow just beside Lovi's ear. He trembled with emotion, hunched above him, but not quite close enough to touch. "There were enough bottles strewn downstairs to scare the hell out of me. You can't _drink_ like that, it's not okay!"

"They're not all from today…" Lovino tried to protest, his heart fluttering to be so near to the star of every beautiful dream he'd ever had. He was more confused than anything. Since when had anyone cared this much?

"And when I finally found you, I… there was water _everywhere_, and _blood in your hair_, and I thought…."

They both sat there, stunned by each other, for what had to be a small eternity. Lovino didn't know what to do with that kind of concern. He wasn't used to it—wasn't used to people _caring_. And he… wasn't used to having Antonio's face so close to his, those impossible green eyes monopolizing his field of vision. _If this were a movie_, he thought to himself, because he didn't hate himself enough, because he hadn't had enough of the poison called hope. _If this were a movie, he'd kiss me now_. He thought for one, impossible moment that it was actually going to happen. Antonio's lashes fluttered once, his head dipped, and it looked like a dance, like a dream, and then…

And then Antonio straightened himself, shook his head and pulled his hands back to his lap. Of course. Of course. He didn't know how he'd ever expected anything differently. He knew better than to dream awake.

"Please… please go," his voice broke on the words before he could stop it. Antonio's gaze snapped back to him instantly. "Please, just," he didn't have the energy to be angry. He just… he needed to be alone to put himself together again. Just for a second, just…

"I can't leave you like this, Lovi. You have a concussion, someone has to keep you awake." There was that terrible, patient voice again, that stupid shade of parental affection. He couldn't do this now, he was going to _lose his mind_.

"Please," he begged, "You can go find painkillers or something. I promise not to sleep, just… two minutes. Please." He swallowed hard, mouth pressed tight to keep his jaw from trembling. This was the height of pathetic right now. If he broke down now, he wouldn't be able to live with himself, so Antonio better _take the fucking hint_ and—

"Okay," he stood, sighing. Lovino could feel the mattress shift in his wake. "Two minutes, got it?"

He waited for the merciful sound of the shutting door, and let the tears spill.


	5. Might Not be the Right Time

WOW. okay.

So remember how I was excited about the chapters being mostly the same size and how it all kind of flowed.

My hand slipped.

This friggin' chapter refused to be written. I started it and restarted it about three or four times.

I also got some very nice con-crit from a guest reviewer; I agree that the chapters have a sort of awkward fit together. Hopefully this one flows better with the last one, but I think it still suffers. I'll have to figure out a better way to keep the same feel.

It's mostly inspired by :  
>Something about Us, by Daft Punk<p>

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><p>His internal clock may not have been the best, but he was fairly certain that idiot had been gone for more than two minutes.<p>

Lovino had only allowed himself a few stolen moments to break, but that was all the time he really needed to shove his hurt back beneath the surface. Now he was lying wrung out and boneless between the sheets, trying not to fall asleep because he'd been stupid enough to promise as much. He didn't know why he was bothering to keep his vow now. Hadn't he been thinking of ending it all earlier? So _what_ if he fell asleep and never woke up. It's not like it would really matter.

Exhaling deeply, he threw a clumsy hand over his eyes and swallowed another mouthful of bitterness. He was far too sober for these thoughts. The voice of his own self-derision grated at him, too loud in the silence. Lovino bowed to it, feeling sick and twisted and _gross_. Maybe the beginnings of a truly spectacular hangover. Headache aside, he couldn't just lay here like this. It was too easy to start dreaming.

He willed himself to move, forcing himself into a sitting position. He'd been too distracted by the concussion to really pay attention to the smarting of his spine, but the moment he got upright he was swiftly reminded of it.

"Mother _fucker_," he bit the words, a thousand other curses trailing unsaid behind them. His neck was too stiff even try to look, but he knew there must be a colorful bruise blooming its way across his back and shoulder blades. He almost felt impressed. He seldom managed to hurt himself this badly without a war to assist him. What a fucking accomplishment.

He had to wait another few beats just to wrestle the pain down to something bearable, and maybe also to keep the contents of his stomach intact. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his legs from beneath the covers and turned so his feet could touch the floor. As he stared at his own knees, trying to muster enough energy to stand, he began to realize that he was in fact startlingly naked. He hadn't noticed before. Sleeping in the nude was something he did often, so it hadn't felt unusual, but then that meant that Antonio had…

The heat that rose through his face was unbearable, and he knew his cheeks must be bright red. He didn't know how he hadn't really thought of it before, when he knew where and how Antonio had found him. But somehow, thinking of the Spaniard lifting his naked form, toweling him off, carrying him to the bed…. A frisson of unholy excitement jumped through him at the mental image. Had those hands lingered in the path of the towel, drawing lines of fire across his skin? He could imagine the way it would feel all too easily. He'd _dreamed_ such things before. It wasn't so hard to—

Lovino stoppered those thoughts as firmly as he could, disgusted with himself. He was pretty sure this was the kind of thing that would get him sent straight to hell when all was said and done. That idiot hadn't been anything more than innocent, whatever he'd done while Lovino had been asleep. He _knew_ that. Wishing otherwise was a whole new level sick.

Still…

No. Absolutely not. He wasn't going there today. He wasn't going to sit here vacillating between self-destructive and ridiculously horny. He felt downright unbalanced. Was this sort of thing normal? Was this a side-effect of head wounds, or almost drowning or… or was he really just that fucked up.

"…don't think he'd really want... are you sure you can't...?" The voice he'd been dreading and longing to hear drifted to him from just beyond the bedroom door. He could hear the muffled sounds of Antonio speaking to someone, trailing off as he walked further away. The dummy was pacing on the phone, no doubt. It was a habit that drove Lovino absolutely insane, but they didn't live together anymore, so it wasn't like he had any right to complain.

Right. He pulled his frazzled mind back down to earth, tried not to think about Antonio's languid form pacing the hall just outside his door. He forced himself to stand and wobbled his way to the dresser. His stomach lurched forebodingly with each step, an ill omen he'd long ago learned how to ignore.

Reaching for and pulling out his dresser drawer was _far_ more trouble than it should have been. He'd only just extended his shoulder before he realized his injured back was going to make things difficult.

"_Madre di dios," _The curse left him in a rush of air, but didn't stop him from finishing his task. He was consumed in the act of trying to sift through his drawer for a comfortable pair of lounging pants, so he wasn't quite paying attention to the phone conversation in the other room. If he had been, he might have noticed it had ended at some point, and he might not have been so unprepared for Antonio to open the bedroom door.

"Lovino, I found some—oh," Antonio froze in the entryway, staring. Lovino's thoughts were fuzzy enough that it took him a moment to realize what was going on. His hand closed around a favored pair of drawstring pants, before he understood that he was bent over his dresser with his ass toward the door. He sighed, wondering when it was that God had decided his life should be pain. He didn't have the energy to be properly upset. Besides, it wasn't like Antonio hadn't seen everything before, and recently too.

"Would it kill you to knock, _bastardo_," he called out, voice lacking in its usual acerbity.

"I—I—right. Sorry." Lovino didn't dare think too hard about how flustered that idiot might sound. It didn't mean anything. Hadn't he learned that lesson over and over? He settled for ignoring his visitor—_even though that was impossible. Because how could he ignore the weight of those eyes on his back?—_and tried putting his foot through the first pant leg. As it turned out, he couldn't bend that far. Not without his vision whiting out with blinding pain and sending him careening sideways into the damn dresser.

"Shit, here, let me help you," Antonio's voice reached him through the waves of hurt, _because of course it did_, and before he could properly prepare himself for it he felt that electric touch at the base of his spine. He knew it was only supposed to be a stabilizing palm, there for him to lean on. So why did his head seem so determined to make it something it wasn't?

"I'm not an invalid," he snapped. _Please don't_, he couldn't say. "I can put my own fucking pants on," he announced with confidence. _Your touch is going to break me,_ he didn't.

"Of course you can," Antonio's assent was nothing more than careful platitude. His hand stayed, steady, the only thing really keeping him upright. With his other arm, he held the second leg out for Lovino to step into. Lovi shook as he half-fell into it, not because the pain was too much (it was) but because Antonio was too fucking close, this was too fucking mortifying, and he was falling apart at the seams.

"Got it," his torturer declared cheerily as Lovino's waistband settled into its proper place. And _thank fucking god_ everything hurt too much for him to manage any kind of obvious arousal. Because the sight of that hand resting against his hip was the sort of dream-fuel he really didn't need.

"Great," he was losing his grip on words. He wanted to ask what he was supposed to do now. Or maybe, why Antonio's touch still lingered. He felt hyper aware of his guest, all too keyed in to the way the man shifted, hand at his back raising to bush the length of his spine. It wasn't supposed to feel like that. He didn't _mean_ it that way, Lovino told himself again and again, but he was starting to get the niggling feeling that…

"Christ, Lovi, that looks seriously awful," Antonio interrupted his traitorous thoughts, fingers tracing what could only be the edges of his bruising, gently massaging. Lovino felt like putty beneath his hands. He didn't notice, at first, how the tracing went on perhaps too long. How, slowly, somewhere, this had become something else.

But surely not. Surely he was just imagining.

"I—" he stammered. He felt as if his heart were trying to fly from his chest. "It's not that bad," he lied, trying to work up the strength to move away. Part of him didn't want this contact to ever end, and yet… He wasn't going to do this again. He wasn't going to give himself this kind of false hope. "Are you going to let go sometime today, jerk?"

It didn't seem as if Antonio had even heard him. The still silence stretched uncomfortably between them, Lovino's heart beating faster with each second. He wished his neck weren't so stiff; he wanted desperately to know what Antonio was doing. Would he be able to read the truth in his face? Was he just wearing that dumb, worried expression or…

Why did that gaze on the back of his neck feel so unbearably hot?

"Spain?" He called out, breathless. _Mercy,_ he meant to beg.

"Right. Sorry," Antonio finally murmured, voice far too close for comfort. His touch swiftly fled, leaving Lovino feeling unmoored. There was something strange in that tone—some mangled emotion that he was just too frazzled to figure out. "Anyway, I found the medicine cabinet."

He didn't move. Didn't react. He couldn't remember how. His entire thought process had become stuck on a single thought; _what the fuck just happened?_

"Lovi? You're still awake, aren't you?" the Spaniard pressed, eventually growing uneasy with his lack of reaction. He heard the rustle of clothing behind him, _knew _that idiot was going to raise a hand to jostle his shoulder.

"Yes," he managed to answer before that could happen, flinching away in the interest of self-preservation. He didn't get away gracefully. He had to reach out and steady himself against the dresser as the room swayed, his vision with it. "What was—what was it you said earlier?"

"I found the medicine cabinet?" Antonio repeated slowly, as if he were speaking to a very dim child. "Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should go sit down."

"I'm _fine_," Lovino snapped, feeling a bit more like himself. There was a breath of pause, just a beat too long of silence before Antonio answered.

"If you say so," he assented, though it was clear he didn't believe a word. He sounded disappointed, maybe frustrated—just the perfect blend of subtle annoyance to set the guilt churning through Lovi's conscience. He winced. "Here," warm breath ghosted across his neck, sending shivers down his spine as Antonio leaned around him and set two white pill capsules on top of the dresser. "Do you need something to drink?"

"N-no." He stuttered, and just like that he was off-balance again. It wasn't fair just how easily this dumbass could take him apart. Slowly, deliberately, he took the pills, careful not to brush too closely to sun-kissed skin. Dry mouthed, he swallowed them without further thought. It was easy enough to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of medicine lodged in his throat. It would go away eventually. He had more important things to worry about. Like—

"I'll never understand how you do that," Antonio mused fondly, still close enough to make his head feel fuzzy and his face hot. Maybe he thought he was there to stop Lovino from falling? Maybe.

"It's not hard," he mumbled. He didn't know what to do in this situation. He was pinned between the dresser and bad idea. He could turn, if he wanted. He could look straight into those impossibly green eyes and move just a bit closer and—

Correction, a _really fucking awful_ idea.

"Okay," Lovino managed to gather enough of his voice to call out. The word cracked half-way through, making him sound more than a little desperate. "Maybe—maybe sitting down doesn't sound so bad." There was another strange pause, practically _heavy_ with quiet, before Antonio backed away. Lovino took the opportunity offered before he could second guess himself. He spun himself around and started lurching unstably for the bedside.

"Do you need help—"

"I'm fine!" he must have sounded frantic enough to be suspicious. Antonio's eyes followed him closely as he half-fell onto the bed. He felt as if he were slowly being disassembled by that gaze. "_What_?"

"Did I do something to make you so afraid of me?"

He felt like his mind had just skipped a beat. Lovino blinked, confused by how out of absolutely nowhere it had come.

"The hell are you talking about?" The older nation stepped closer, sighing. He let himself fall to the space beside Lovi on the bedspread, watched the way Lovino's body tensed at his proximity, as if he'd learned to expect it. He reached for Lovino's shoulder, stared impassively as Lovino trembled beneath his touch.

"What is this, _querido?_" He asked, sounding so tired and sad that the Italian's heart began to ache.

"It's not anything," Lovino lied for all he was worth, because he had no idea what else to do. Because the truth could break him. "I don't know what you're even asking."

"You've been falling over yourself to get away from me since you first woke up," Antonio continued, lachrymose. "I just can't figure it out. What did I do? When did you start fleeing at the sight of me?"

"_Spagna_, that's not—I haven't been—" he scrambled for words. His chest seemed too tight, heart in his throat. Antonio tried again, raising the hand from Lovino's shoulder to trace his cheek. Try as he might, he just couldn't stifle his body's reaction. He shuttered, torn between flinching away and pressing against that touch.

"Right." Antonio pulled his fingers away and stood. He turned and walked to the door with a finality that was utterly terrifying.

"Where are you going?" Lovino blurted, his eyes burning.

"Don't worry, I called Feliciano earlier. He'll be here soon enough." The door swung open. Every instinct Lovino had was screaming not to let him leave.

"Spain—" he tried, forcing himself back to his feet.

"I'm sorry for intruding. I should have realized you didn't want me around sooner. Maybe—"

"Antonio!" Like a dream, like a charm, the name worked. The man froze, one foot still poised to step into the hallway. He stood still long enough for Lovino to catch up, stumbling and unbalanced though he was. "It isn't _you_ I'm afraid of, _bastardo_, it's…" _losing you_, his thoughts finished the words he couldn't bear to speak aloud. He let himself fall forward until he could rest his forehead against that stiff back. "You don't have to go," he offered. _Please don't leave_, he left unsaid.

They stood there, motionless, for far too long. Lovino felt irrationally as if he should hold his breath—as if the smallest thing might upset this careful balance. He kept his eyes shut tight and wondered just what he thought he was doing.

"Lovino?" He heard Antonio's voice in the dark and realized he'd nearly nodded off like this, leaning with his face pressed to the space between his Spain's shoulder-blades.

"Yeah?"

"I've known you long enough to be able to tell when you're lying." Lovi jerked upright, indignant at the accusation.

"I'm not—"

"I know, you aren't." Antonio cut him off. He pivoted unexpectedly, forcing Lovino to stumble backwards. "So then, there's something I still don't understand." With a frightening intensity, the older nation stepped toward him. He took a few more, shaky steps backward, only to fall against the wall. The bruises there smarted with the motion, but he hardly felt them. Antonio's left hand came forward, resting against the wall-space just beside Lovino's ear.

"Wh—what are you doing?" He could scarcely formulate the words. Antonio was _watching _him so intently, and he was really, far too close. Surely he'd be able to feel the warmth radiating from Lovino's face, surely—

"I was wrong before, no? So now I have to be sure," he leaned impossibly closer, raised his right hand to trace the same path across Lovino's cheek. "What is this?" He asked, low-pitched and rough. Lovino _shook_.

"I don't—" he fumbled furiously for something to say, something that would stop the dawning comprehension slowly creeping over Antonio's expression. "It's nothing. It's—"

He was thwarted by the sound of the front door banging open.

"Romano?" Feliciano's cheery voice drifted to them from the front of the house. Too late. He'd broken this spell too late. Antonio was still staring him down, eyes full of something like wonder. He knew. _He knew._ "Roma? Where are you?" The Spaniard backed away unhurriedly. He traced Lovino's jawline with his fingertips as he stepped back—a meaningless gesture that kept his stupid heart wondering, _hoping_.

"We're in Lovino's room," Antonio called out mercifully, and left to meet his brother at the entry. Lovino could not bring himself to follow. He watched the older nation's retreating form, let himself slide the rest of the way down the wall and wondered just what he was supposed to do now.


End file.
